


Speed Demon

by chewysugar



Series: Inherent Vice [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Dean-Centric, Impala, Masturbation, Other, Speed kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets off on the speed. He doesn't know that Sam's also got his own ways of coping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speed Demon

Zero to ninety in six points flat is the best feeling in the world for him. There’s no destination, not a physical or even meta-physical one—just the octane rush that courses through every sinew and blood vessel.

Open sky and open land blurs by as Dean pushes Baby faster and faster. The thought that he could leave it all behind—all the blood and screams and death—insinuates itself around his mind: it’s the clingiest, neediest stripper, and his thoughts are the lap in which she grinds her dance.

Most men would get off on the speed. And yeah, there’s times when reaching the one-twenty mark on the speedometer has gotten him a little bit too happy in the pants on the most normal day.

Nights like this are never about the momentum—it’s about the escape: the idea that he could just drive into the velvet blanket of the night sky. In some Freudian way, it’s really messed up: going as fast as a NASCAR racer with the thought of disappearing gets him hard. And in some ways, it’s entirely understandable.

Too much take, never enough give. Dean’s earned the right to this.

Gears shift with the shudder of a lover on the edge of blinding climax. Dean drives the way he fucks—hard, lost in the sensation but focused entirely on her, on his Baby. How her tires whir over the pavement; how her engine purrs just right when he gets her cruising like there’s nothing left in the universe but speed and escape.

It’s a flat stretch of highway between Baby and the star-peppered horizon; it’s a direct highway of blood vessels and nerves between Dean’s brain and his cock. He pushes the gas pedal down even further—a lover’s touch: gentle, reverent but made to spur onward, to entice new feeling and sounds.

Everything becomes meaningless as the needle goes past one-sixty. Time, speed, sound, even the idea of disappearing has joined the black hole of pure sensation. Dean ruts his hips up against nothing, just to have friction against his jeans. He bites his lip, and takes one hand off the steering wheel.

Now there’s danger—needless danger because Dean’s nothing if not a good driver. But danger is nothing if not the ultimate aphrodisiac, at least for someone like Dean. The tight muscles of his abdomen clench as adrenaline pumps through him. The hard metal of his fly bites against the skin of his dick. He unzips with his free hand, takes the hot length between fingers that are familiar with the thickness and weight after all these years.

Baby shudders from the force of speed around her; Dean shudders from something entirely different. The speed practically reaches into his balls, churning his already boiling seed. Pearly white precum beads his tip; it’s like the stars outside, clear and hot and bright.

He makes Baby purr just a little harder; presses the pedal down a fraction of an inch. Rough fingers stroke his tumescent prick the right way one more time, and that’s all it takes.

The whiteout is superb. Fucking celestial. Dean throws his head back against the seat and takes his foot off the gas.

Everything slows. It’s the best mind-fuck feeling in the world as his brain goes to oblivion. His hips jerk; he’s humping the air as he sprays load after load on the pristine, inky black steering wheel. 

Dean’s boneless by the time the car stops, alone in the empty highway. The sharps smells of sweat, spunk and leather fill his nostrils; it’s a cologne he could wear twenty-four seven if he had the choice.

There’s quiet. Nothing but the Impala’s gentle hum as she idles on the concrete.

Dean sits there for a moment, jeans still around his ankles, staring at the pearly gobs of his own cum painted onto the steering wheel.

He has to go back, and he hates that. Even in the bliss of having just shot sticky jizz on Baby—not for the first time—he knows that he has to turn around, away from the speed and promise of oblivion.

Away from the whiteout of jerking off while tearing down the highway at the speed of sound.

Dean pulls a u-turn and drives back the way he came. There’s no oblivion, no beautiful night sky. Just the promise of all the hardship back at Motel Who-Gives-A-Shit.

He pulls his jeans up, ‘cause as much of an exhibitionist as he is, he doesn’t want to get jail time for public indecency.

By the time he gets back to the motel, his skeet has dried up on the wheel. Dean grabs a disinfectant wipe from the glove compartment and wipes down out of courtesy. Sam has to drive Baby sometimes, too. As amusing as watching Sam’s fingers curl around the evidence stains Dean left behind, Dean doesn’t think it would be fair.

They’ve both had a fuck of a time lately, after all.

Dean expects Sam to be fast asleep. He opens the door to the motel suite quiet as a mouse. He only gets half an inch before the sight that greets his eyes makes him stop.

His first stupid thought is that Sam’s trying to commit suicide. Why else would there be a belt around his neck?

It’s only when he sees that Sam is on the floor with his back to the closet, his boxers around his knees and his hand around his own leaking dick that Dean knows his brother is getting off, as opposed to offing himself. Sam’s making these little choked grunts as he jerks his cock with one hand and tightens the belt around his neck with the other.

His mouth stretches wide, letting out a silent shout, breath stolen by the leather digging into his windpipe. His hips jerk, and Dean knows what’s going to happen but he still doesn’t look away.

Standing there and staring through the barely one inch crack between door and frame while his little brother shoots ropes of cum is a little messed up. But Dean’s not grossed out or disturbed; just understanding.

Of course Sam has his own way of pushing that edge. Sometimes a man just has to get to that apex where things cross the line from primal need to a fucked up.

Dean has the speed and the thought of never going back; Sam’s got the pain and looking Death in the face.

Silent as a shadow, Dean closes the door. No sense being caught watching Sam, post-nut bust, like the world’s worst perv.

For a second, Dean stands in indecision. He’s starting to feel that warmth that swirls like a maelstrom in his lower abdomen.

Then he’s walking back to the Impala. Another speed trip is in order. There’s enough juice in both of them—gas in the Baby’s engine and cum in Dean’s nuts—to make another futile shot at that wide-open promise of escape.


End file.
